My motherland sinks; as the habitat is ferociously guzzled, from the Desert Sonora –
Development; devastating the lands that in eighteen sixty where home to Geronimo.
I found refuge; in a land fabricated by decomposed flora; composing the Offaly móna –
Innocence still exists; in what – ‘was known’ – as the ‘Kings County’ when the land was raided; in aid of filling a portfolio.
The Celts and Apaches; warriors of land, living peacefully – until the period of acquiring territories.
Cultures rich; dating back to Neolithics; living nomadicly; complimenting the climate –
The race to acquire; had no value for humans; throwing them all into purgatory.
Magistrates; had no compassion; instead purchased bloodstained goblets, from muskets.
Born with no enclosures; these cultures ended; in poverty-stricken prisons.
Warned by the sun, rocked by the winds, sheltered by the trees; they lived peacefully –
Taken from their homes; they became sick and died – decisions to not provide nutrition; where not revisited.
Martyrs; died in bondage; only wished their offspring returned home, legally.
Borders remain; small minds impoverish individuals – but why?
Each child; deserves the chance to receive a lullaby; in an unpaid liberty; free from alibi.